Is it all so delicate and dependent on fleeting metaphysical moments or could there exist something real enough that persists beyond those cherished seconds? Should a man accept defeat and succumb to endless mental anguish or should he somehow free himself, choosing to live a life worth living? And is life in cowardly, self-deprecating cycles of viciousness even life? What is breath without air? What are eyes without sight? What is a landscape without life? What is a muse without love?

Thanks for the video. Pretty song. Our people, being overall more creative and intelligent, definitely have the power of expression. Of course it can be a double-edged sword. Even though we can oftentimes adequately express how we feel, it seems that people like us are more susceptible to personal, mental, and emotional torment in the first place. I think that being white, smart and being able to muse more abstractly places one closer to the divine in a way; but it is also makes life more difficult or scary at times. And in this day and age, when our very way of life is under siege and our people are daily threatened and our beautiful culture is somewhat despised, I grow ever more disillusioned with it all.

Here is another muse-related poem that I wrote recently. I wasn't going to post it unless I thought someone was interested in this thread.

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You can be my model, but you can’t be my muse. I’m sorry if you’re confused; but there’s so much more to the concept than flesh. I probably can’t express in so many meager words. Language is inadequate, absurd. There is an inexpressible magic in the hands of a genius – something only unleashed, released from the heart connecting to another heart, each playing a vital, equal part. The woman that can silence the dizzying assault of thoughts in the head of a man can turn him into a great man and transform him from a corpse into a vessel for transcendence; so his surreal existence takes on meaning; for we are not the simple-minded. We are those who espouse virtue and acknowledge greatness, but likewise despise condescension. Arrogance is coldness, the antithesis of love and therefore not a part of a meaningful life. But perhaps I don’t even know what that ****ing is. Life can be so insidious – a hellstorm – a malicious whore. I barely grasp a purpose anymore. I’m sick with tension, tired of yearning, without a peaceful end in sight. This feels so trite. I can be too subtle. I live a ruse. You can be my model, but you can’t be my muse.